


Aftermath

by planet_plantagenet



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Angst, Depression, Drawing, Homophobia, M/M, Past Character Death, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-09 00:28:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7779610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/planet_plantagenet/pseuds/planet_plantagenet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Horatio and Osric comfort each other, three days after the deaths of Hamlet and Laertes.<br/>Horatio’s POV.</p><p>It's recommended, but not necessary, to read "Water-fly" before this: http://archiveofourown.org/works/7761691</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftermath

I hadn’t gotten proper sleep in days. Not since the duel that had left four souls destroyed and one broken beyond repair. I turned over and over restlessly at night, falling into a slumber that was disturbed periodically by nightmares, voices, sounds outside my window. In the day, I often dozed off at my desk, waking to find my face stained with ink from the drawing I hadn’t finished.

Drawing. That was the one activity I could bring myself to complete. I spent the days at my desk, sketching the same person over and over. Perhaps I was worried that one day, the face would fade out of my memory, and I’d only have my drawings to remember my beautiful Hamlet.

In those first days, I’d lain, sprawled across my bed, sobbing into my pillow. Emotions consumed me. Now I’d settled into a perpetual state of unfeeling. Time passed, and I barely left my room. My only motivation was to draw.

Various people visited me—servants of Fortinbras, courtiers from Elsinore, the like—to bring me food and possibly attempt to cheer me up. None of the interactions were long, or even worth remembrance. I knew I should talk, be more polite. But I never did. Everyone who I’d regularly conversed with before was now long gone—either dead, or moved away from this hellish country.

One day, however, it was different.

There was a knock on the door. It was quiet, and I barely heard it the first time, consumed in another one of my portraits. They knocked again, louder.

“Come in,” I murmured, and heard the door creak open, then slowly shut. I didn’t look up.

“You’re Horatio, right?” The voice was hushed, slightly nervous.

I turned, my eyes falling upon the courtier who’d invited Hamlet to the duel three days ago. He was three, maybe four years younger than me, wearing a blue sweater and clutching the same green cap that Hamlet had teased him about. His black hair looked more dishevelled than ever, and his eyes were red.

“Yeah,” I replied, my voice hoarse from lack of use. “Osric, is it?”

He gave a small nod, but didn’t speak. For a while, he stood there, simply… looking at me. Expressionless. Possibly a little sad.

I turned away from him, focusing on my latest unfinished drawing. Maybe he’d leave. Or perhaps he’d stay and watch me. I didn’t particularly care either way. I picked up my pen, started tracing the pencil lines I’d made earlier.

“That’s Hamlet,” Osric remarked. He was beside me now, his gaze falling over the hundreds of pictures that littered my desk. Most portraits were of Hamlet, of course, but I had a couple of Ophelia, and some of the other people who’d died. However, I’d never drawn Claudius or Polonius.

“It is,” I said.

Osric reached towards the pile, gently pulling out a drawing of Laertes. The picture looked just like him—his straight, black hair cropped just before his shoulders, and his fierce-but-happy grin. An expression I hadn’t seen on his face since before his father’s death.

“This is amazing,” Osric whispered. “How do you draw like this?”

I shrugged. “Practice.”

He looked back at the picture, tracing the line of Laertes’ hair with a shaking finger. Then he blinked, turned his attention back to me. “Uh… what I came in here to ask you….”

“Yes?”

“Do you have any… strategies for coping with death?” Osric swallowed, continued quickly. “I mean… lots of people just died… it’s kind of….” He trailed off, eyes drifting back to the drawing.

I almost laughed. Coping? Me? What I was doing wasn’t coping. In fact, I was probably ignoring almost all the rules of handling grief.

Osric went on. “I, um, read somewhere that it’s good to talk to other people about your feelings…?” He looked imploringly at me.

“You want me to talk to you?”

“If it isn’t too much trouble,” he said quickly. As an afterthought: “I think it’d help you too.”

I stood, faced Osric. I was a good couple inches taller than him. “Yeah. I just… don’t know what to say.”

“Try!”

I looked away from him, eyes focusing on a spot on the floor. “I… I loved Hamlet. He meant the world to me, and I… well, I don’t know if he ever figured that out.” I swallowed. “And then he died, and it just… tore me apart. I wanted so badly to die with him. But here I am, standing, breathing, and I guess… I’ll have to live with the consequences of that.”

I didn’t know what else to say, but it seemed I didn’t have to say it. I looked back at Osric. He was clutching the drawing of Laertes, silent tears spilling out of his eyes.

I remembered when Osric had come to inform Hamlet of the duel. Breathless, he’d gone out of his way to compliment Laertes, a look of complete adoration in his eyes. It finally clicked.

“You loved Laertes,” I whispered, and Osric nodded, seemingly unable to speak.

I pulled him into an embrace, and he eagerly reciprocated, flinging his arms around my neck and sobbing into my shoulder. I didn’t mind. After the duel, I wished I’d had someone who understood what I was going through. So I held Osric in my arms until his sobs turned into sniffles, and he wiped his eyes and smiled at me sadly.

“Isn’t there anyone else you can talk to about this?” I asked.

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say, because tears welled Osric’s eyes again. “No… the other courtiers… they don’t get it….”

“What did they say?”

He continued. “I tried to explain… what Laertes meant to me. They say, _‘oh Osric, that’s not true love’_ , and _‘don’t be a pussy, real boys don’t cry’_ , and _‘it’s not natural for boys to like boys’_ , and….” A tear trickled down his cheek. “And… _‘Laertes never would have loved you anyway, you homosexual freak’_.”

I felt a surge of anger and horror at the words. I’d had my share of homophobia, of course, but it never bothered me anymore. However… Osric was a highly sensitive person who had probably been struggling with his identity a lot recently.

“I’m so, so sorry….” I whispered. “That’s terrible. They have no right to say that to you.”

Osric nodded. “I know… it just… it hurts….”

“It does.” I put a hand on his shoulder. “Did you… ever tell Laertes about your feelings?”

“Yeah, sort of. The day before the duel.”

“Did he feel the same way?”

“I….” Osric paused, recalling the moment. “I don’t know. He seemed to enjoy my company, at the very least.”

I thought of Hamlet, his feelings ambiguous till the very end. _Give me that man that is not passion's slave, and I will wear him in my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart, as I do thee._

I pushed the thoughts away. He was dead, and I’d never know if he loved me back.

“That’s good,” I replied.

Osric looked down at my drawing of Laertes, still clasped in his hands. “May I keep this?”

“Of course!”

I rummaged through the pile of completed portraits, finding another of Laertes. This one was slightly larger, detailing his entire body instead of just his head and shoulders. Osric’s eyes widened, and he took the second picture, smiling up at me in gratitude.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

There was silence for a second as Osric walked towards the door. Then he paused. “Horatio?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think there’s an afterlife?”

That was a hard question to answer. Most of my life, I’d never bothered thinking about death. But then I’d seen the ghost of Hamlet’s father, and my entire belief system was turned on its head.

“I’m not sure. But if there is, I hope Hamlet and Laertes are happy. I hope they’ve forgiven each other.”

“Me too,” said Osric quietly. “See you later, I hope.” He gave me one last smile, and disappeared out the door.

I stared at the door for a second before turning back to my work. That was the first proper conversation I’d had in days. I hoped that there’d be more.


End file.
